


Lessons on Life and Dueling

by sunstarunicorn



Series: Magical Flashpoint Side Stories [19]
Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, Facing the Giants, Flashpoint (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Merlin (TV)
Genre: Backlash, Bomb Defusion, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-22
Updated: 2018-11-22
Packaged: 2019-08-27 18:41:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16707931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunstarunicorn/pseuds/sunstarunicorn
Summary: Ever since the Shiloh Dueling Academy hosted a techie-friendly dueling tournament, they’ve been harassed and hounded by angry purebloods.  Then the dueling hall is vandalized, Brooke Taylor is assaulted, and Grant’s two employees are threatened.  Will the Shiloh Eagles fly again?  A Magical Flashpoint Side Story





	1. Flying with the Shiloh Eagles

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of the Magical Flashpoint Side Story series. It follows "Blessings" and comes before "Bad Cop, Good Cop". It also comes before the Side Story "Of Fear and Overcoming It".
> 
> Although all original characters belong to me, I do not own _Flashpoint_ , _Harry Potter_ , _Narnia_ , or _Merlin_.
> 
> In a repeat of my end note from "Dueling Club": As much as I wish I could lay claim to the staff of the Shiloh Dueling Academy, I cannot. I adapted several characters from the movie _Facing the Giants_ for the Academy staff. I have not changed the names of any of the borrowed characters, but I did change a few other things to fit with the Magical Flashpoint 'verse.
> 
> And in a shameless plug: _Facing the Giants_ is a wonderful film and everyone should see it! Rent it and 'round up the whole family to enjoy.

“Brooke!” Grant yelled as he shoved aside what was left of the door to his dueling hall.  “Brooke!  Where are you?”  _Please, God, don’t let anything have happened to her._   He barely glanced around the ruined hall as he barreled through the front area, scanning for his wife.  “Brooke!  Answer me!”

Part of him couldn’t help it; even as he searched frantically for Brooke, he saw the graffiti on the walls: _MUDBLOOD GO HOME_ , _NO MUGGLES HERE_ , and even _MAGIC IS MIGHT_.  And proudly emblazoned on one of the walls was a green skull with a snake coming out of its mouth.  Anything that could be smashed and ripped apart _was_ smashed and ripped; Grant slid to a halt, dodging around a dueling platform whose wards were wildly fluctuating, the runes that powered said wards cracked and misshapen.  His gaze locked on his office door, broken in half and clinging to its one remaining hinge with a stray scrap of metal.  The wizard’s wand, already in his hand, flicked at the door; he ignored the fact that he was adding to the mess as the door flew out of his path and slammed into the broken wards behind him.  Both door and wards fizzled, the wards falling and the door charring as it finally hit the ground with a _crash_.

“ _Brooke, where are you?!_ ” Grant shouted as he skidded into the doorway of his office.  “ _BROOKE!_ ” he howled as he spotted her, buried under his office drawers and files; she wasn’t moving and her hair spread around her head like a fan, mixed with blood.  His first instinct was to run to her, uncover her, and worry about the rest later, but his training kicked in with a vengeance; instead, he swore and pushed off from the doorway, going _away_ from Brooke as he hurtled towards the dueling hall’s Floo.

Grant fought past the wreckage of the hall, heavier close to the fireplace and his dueling hall’s Apparition Point, snarling words that his wife would have his _head_ for, but he hardly cared.  _Please, God, don’t take her away from me,_ he begged silently, flinging his hand forward, yelling the spells to clear the debris from the Floo.  A second spell lit the fire and Grant darted left to scoop up a handful of Floo Powder.  “Auror Division!” he ordered, smashing the powder into the fire.  As soon as the flames turned green, he stuck his head through, glaring at the on-duty Auror on the other side.

In a bored tone, the Auror inquired, without even looking up from his magazine, “This is the Auror Division, what is your emergency and Floo of origin?”

“I’m at the Shiloh Dueling Hall; my wife has been attacked!”

* * * * *

_27 hours earlier_

Greg Parker gave his _nipotes_ an encouraging smile.  “I’ll be fine for an hour or two; go have fun at your dueling lesson.”

The encouragement fell on deaf ears as they both regarded him worriedly.  In a way, he understood; the past day and two nights had been anything but ‘fine’ as his arm and back began to heal from the injuries he’d sustained taking down a terrorist group.  There had been a time or two when the only way he’d been able to distract himself from the ache and fierce agony was his kids reading to him or dragging him into mock arguments; Lance had even managed to finagle a _Mario Kart_ contest between himself and his sister, complete with blatant fouls and mini-spats that ranged from normal sibling arguing to squabbles so utterly outrageous that Greg couldn’t help but laugh at them.

“Really,” Greg added as they continued to stare at him.  “I’m much better today than I was yesterday.  Now go on, you’re going to be late.”

Alanna ducked her head, biting her lip; Lance sighed softly, clearly about to give in, when Alanna spoke up.  “Come with us.”

Both men stared at her.  “Come again?” Greg inquired.

“Parents can come and see the lessons,” Alanna chirped, gaining confidence.  “Mr. Taylor says dueling is just like martial arts and parents can watch their kids do martial arts lessons, so he made the same rule for dueling lessons.”  She met Greg’s eyes, a touch of defiance in her own.  “We can take the Knight Bus **(1)** and then you don’t have to Floo.”

Greg arched a brow.  “I don’t consider the Knight Bus a step up from the Floo, _mia nipote_ ,” he offered drolly.  “But I suppose it’s the only way I’m going to get you two out of the apartment today, isn’t it?”

Twin nods.

The Sergeant groaned to himself and stood up to retrieve his coat.  The Knight Bus…  _This is not going to be fun…_

* * * * *

Grant Taylor grinned as he surveyed his bustling dueling hall.  His gamble of a few months prior had come close to losing him his entire staff _and_ his business, before he’d even had a chance to roll the dice, but then Brooke – his wonderful, beautiful, till death do them part wife – had stepped in and pleaded for Brady and J.T. to give the Shiloh Dueling Academy one last chance.  Do the one last tournament and then, if they wanted to leave, they could.

J.T., already wavering, had agreed at once, but Brady hadn’t said anything.  For the next two days, as the Techie League swarmed the dueling hall and started putting their tournament together, Brady hadn’t said anything.  He’d helped when asked and he’d run his regular defensive magic lessons, but he hadn’t spoken to his coworkers at all.

* * * * *

_Grant was walking past the newly erected audience stands when he spotted Brady talking to one of their longtime customers, Alvin Pervis.  Mr. Pervis acted as the de-facto parents’ group representative and, usually, his voice carried a fair amount of weight.  But Grant would have been deaf, dumb, and blind if he hadn’t been able to notice the undercurrents in the parents’ group, even_ before _the Calvin kids turned up with their big idea.  It was no secret that Mr. Pervis – and several other parents – believed that Shiloh Academy should have a dueling team, but he didn’t seem to realize that dueling teams cost money Shiloh didn’t have and needed more students than Shiloh had on its roster.  Nevertheless, Pervis had been quietly whispering in people’s ears that Grant didn’t have what it took to run Shiloh Dueling Academy anymore.  The one thing Pervis’ whispering had lacked thus far was someone to replace Grant with.  And, judging by the conversation Grant was overhearing, he’d finally found someone._

_“…a dueling tournament that_ Muggles _can come to!  What’s next?  Teaching the Muggles to duel, eh?  If Shiloh does this, it’s done, finished.  It doesn’t have to be like that Brady; I have enough influence with the parents to push Grant out and replace him with a_ real _leader.  A good wizard, someone our children can look up to, can learning dueling from, someone who can finally put together that dueling team Shiloh should have had_ years _ago.”_

_Brady wasn’t answering, but he was nodding as Pervis spoke.  Grant stalked towards the conversation, his anger growing.  He and Brooke had poured their blood, sweat, and tears into Shiloh.  After he’d been injured and lost a career he hadn’t even finished the training for, they’d had precious little except each other and a dream.  Every Knut they’d had went into the small, outdated, and shabby dueling hall that became their fresh start.  And now Pervis wanted to take Shiloh away from him?_

_“What’s it going to take, Brady?” Pervis demanded of the portly wizard, neither noticing Grant’s seething descent.  “How long before you come to your senses and realize that Grant Taylor is destroying our children’s future?_ You _can stop him, stop all of this!”_

_He stopped talking as Grant got between them, a deadly look in his eyes.  But Grant didn’t speak, just let his glare, set jaw, and rigid shoulders do the talking_ for _him.  And Pervis knew it; he was already twitching and fidgeting, nerves showing in his face as the man he’d been slandering stood there, glaring at him and not speaking.  After several tense – long – seconds, Pervis scurried away, leaving Grant with Brady._

_Grant turned, his glare switching to Brady.  Brady swallowed and babbled, “He came to_ me _, Grant.  And you can’t deny he’s wrong;_ Muggles _, Grant?  What the heck?  Have you forgotten what Muggles_ do _to wizards?”_

_“Brady, I can’t tell you what to think, but I’m going to say two things.  One, you’re not doin’ anyone any favors by sittin’ on the fence.  Figure out which side you’re on – and_ stay _on it!  And two, you’re talkin’ about the parents of hundreds of young wizards and witches – includin’_ me _, by the way.  Do you really think it’s fair to stand here and judge us for wantin’ to keep our families?”_

_Without waiting for a reply, Grant turned to go, then halted at the soft, uncertain question.  “Is that why we’ve never met your parents?  They’re Muggles?”_

_Anger drained away; Grant felt his shoulders slump.  Looking back, he replied, “I haven’t seen my parents since the day Brooke and I got married, Brady.  When I was in school, I couldn’t invite them to events like most of my classmates could and they didn’t understand why I couldn’t.  They thought I was rebelling, pushing them away and ignoring the values they’d taught me all my life.  It’s not unusual, Brady, even without magic, so that’s what they thought.  And they let me go.”_

_“What?  Why?”  Confusion was etched on Brady’s face; he could clearly see his boss’s anguish, even years later.  “Why would they just let you go?”_

_“Because,” Grant replied simply, “They love me.”_

* * * * *

The next day, Brady had relegated himself to watching again, but he’d _really_ watched – and listened.  Listened to the enthusiasm of the kids as they set things up and sold tickets and organized the dueling brackets.  Watched as the disparate groups that made up the Techie League came together, building a new – and long overdue – bridge between two worlds with their tournament.  Grant, right in the thick of things, had left Brady alone, but J.T. hadn’t.  J.T. dragged Brady into the center of the action and put him to work.  The day after that, Brady looked his boss in the eye and said two words, “I’m in.”

And look at things now.  Instead of a business straining and struggling to stay in the black, they were raking in a modest profit and looking to spruce up the hall.  Instead of one, maybe two classes a week, they now had solid attendance at both of their weekday after-school classes and an adult class with spotty, but improving attendance.  If things continued as they had, Grant was even planning to start looking into what it _would_ take to have a dueling team.  _The Shiloh Eagles…that sounds like a good name._

In the front area, Brady was holding court with his class, lecturing them on the theory behind the two defensive spells he was teaching them.  Brady was good at that, building a solid theory foundation before letting the students loose with a new spell.  In the back area, J.T. was supervising an after-school study group, open to all years with the caveat that the only stupid question was the one that wasn’t asked.  Oh, there had been the usual wags, but J.T. had handled them with his usual unique mix of enthusiasm and minor retaliatory pranks.

Grant looked over at the front door, arching a brow at the loud _bang_ that heralded the arrival of the Knight Bus.  It was a familiar sound these days as the techie parents, driven by both concern and curiosity, descended in droves to watch the lessons.  Two or three parents were even becoming regulars in the study group, helping J.T. maintain order and learning almost as much as the children.  The wizard broke out into a smile as he spotted the Calvin siblings coming in with their uncle close behind them, then he frowned as he noticed Sergeant Parker was being _very_ careful with his right arm.

* * * * *

It was official, he hated the Knight Bus…the next time he saw Auror Onasi, he was going to demand to know why the Knight Bus didn’t have any safety precautions…like, say: _seatbelts_.  In the meantime, he was going to ask Taylor where the closest gateway to the Academy was located, so he could call a member of his team to give them a ride home after the lesson.

“Sergeant Parker, it’s nice to see you again.”  Speak of the devil.

“Mr. Taylor,” Greg returned, shaking the man’s hand firmly and ignoring the twinge from his shoulder.  “Likewise.  _Mio nipotes_ wanted me to come with them today.”

Taylor grinned at that, clapping Greg on his left shoulder.  “Well then,” he remarked, turning to the two eager teens.  “Let’s get started, shall we?”

It was only as Greg was following the three wizards that he realized: Taylor had gone out of his way to avoid Greg’s injured shoulder…without being told.  Greg idly rubbed his right shoulder as he trailed behind, thinking hard.

* * * * *

“ _Astrice_.”

“ _Gescildan_ ,” came the swift counter, though the striking spell still pushed Alanna back.  Violet eyes narrowed as she held the shielding spell in place.

“ _Akwele_ ,” Lance snapped, following up with an immediate, “ _Petrificus Totalus_ **(2)** _!_ ” from the wand in his off-hand.  The first curse, glowing green, smashed into Alanna’s shield; the shield held for an instant, then flickered out of existence, spent.  The white blaze of the body-bind curse sailed through thin air to strike the redhead; she yelped, then dropped.

“Cut,” Grant called, stepping onto the dueling platform.  He waved his wand at Alanna, releasing her from the curse and waited for her to push herself up.  “Alanna, good job with your shield, but don’t depend on it.  Once it’s down, it can’t be recast fast enough to stop a spell that’s already in the air.  Even with the shield, you’ve _got_ to remember to dodge.”

“Yes, sir,” Alanna agreed, pushing her ruffled hair out of her face.

Grant nodded, turning to a smirking Lance.  “Good job catching Alanna off guard by mixing Old with Latin, but she’d have had you if you hadn’t broken through her shield.  You’re confident, which is good, but you get cocky really fast, kid, and that’s gonna be your downfall if you don’t get it under control.  Remember Lance…”

“I’m only a daredevil as long as I don’t get hit, then I become an idiot who _used_ to be a daredevil,” Lance countered, though his smirk had long since dropped away.

“Close enough,” Grant decided.  If Lance wanted to put his own spin on Grant’s oft-repeated warnings against showing off and being cocky, that was fine with Grant.  He clapped his hands.  “All right, take a quick jog around the arena to cool off, then you two are done for today.”

Twin salutes, then the siblings took off while Grant headed over to the audience of one in the stands.  “They’re getting better,” Sergeant Parker mused, watching the pair jog side-by-side.

“Yep,” Grant agreed.  “They started out in J.T.’s class, but then Lance lost his wand in a duel and threw an _Astrice_ before J.T. could call the match.  Caught pretty much everyone off guard, let me tell you.”

“Did _mio nipote_ get in trouble?” Sergeant Parker inquired, a slight edge to his tone that boded ill for said nephew.

“No and I’ll tell you why,” Grant replied, staying nonchalant.  “J.T.’s philosophy is that our kids need to be ready for _anything_ out there.  As much as I hate it, if they go pro or, God forbid, trouble starts up again, it’s not going to be the usual spells out there.  Bending the rules on the dueling circuit happens more often than we like and real life _has_ no rules.  Lance didn’t hurt anything except his opponent’s pride and everyone learned a valuable lesson about assuming a match is over just ‘cause your opponent lost his wand.”

Sergeant Parker nodded thoughtfully.  “And after that, they got separate lessons?”

“Had to,” Grant admitted.  “No one here, _including_ me, knows this Old Magic stuff, but it’s too valuable to ignore.  At the same time, I can’t expect my other students to spend time on magic they can’t use, so now they work with me.”

“Copy that,” Sergeant Parker murmured thoughtfully; Grant eyed the officer curiously, but didn’t ask.  After a minute, Sergeant Parker nodded once to himself.  “Sounds like _mio nipotes_ are in good hands.  But in the meantime…”

“Yes?” Grant asked nervously at the gleam in Sergeant Parker’s eyes.

“Is there any way I can call a member of my team to come pick us up so we don’t have to take the Knight Bus back?”

Grant blinked, looking between Sergeant Parker and the front of the dueling hall.  Then the implications sunk in and he laughed.  It really _was_ true: _no one_ liked the Knight Bus!

 

[1] One of the few methods of travel available to any wizard, whether underage, adult, or infirm.  Unlike the Floo, it is not limited to locations with a working fireplace and therefore can be called in both magical and technological areas.  Though effective, few riders enjoy the bus, with good reason.

[2] Latin for ‘entirely petrify’


	2. Clipping an Eagle’s Wings

On Monday, Grant gathered up the dueling hall’s earnings from the weekend and headed out of his office.  “Brooke,” he called, peeking around the corner to see his beautiful blonde wife at the front desk, “I’m off to Gringotts.”

Brooke twisted around in her seat, a broad smile on her face.  “I’ll just be here then, Grant,” she promised.

Grant smiled at her.  “Hey, maybe you could brush up the runes on the dueling platforms in the front area?  I think the rear one’s starting to fade a bit.”

Laughter spilled out.  “You just don’t want to do it yourself, Grant,” Brooke scolded.  When Grant shot her a pleading look, she giggled.  “All right then.  If the big, tough Grant Taylor can’t do it, I guess I can.”

“Thanks Brooke.”  Grant shifted back, then poked his head back out, turning serious.  “And remember…”

“Keep the lockdown wards up until you come back,” Brooke recited, shooing him towards the Floo.  “I remember.”

* * * * *

After his meeting at Gringotts; a tense, difficult meeting with his usual manager who made it a point to sneer in Grant’s direction as he counted the Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts as slowly as possible and then pointedly proclaimed that Grant was – even with the ‘highly unexpected and unorthodox business practices you’ve employed of late’ – behind on his loan payments; Grant headed to the Golden Prime Inn to grab a few bottles of butterbeer **(3)** and use their Floo.

The butterbeer was easy enough, but when he tried to use the Floo, the connection sputtered out.  Activity in the Inn halted as everyone stared between the extinguished fireplace and the horrified, terror-stricken wizard who’d been about to use it.  The butterbeer fell to the floor unnoticed as Grant whirled and raced out of the Inn, Apparating as soon as he was clear.

* * * * *

“Brooke!” Grant yelled as he shoved aside what was left of the front door to his dueling hall.  “Brooke!  Where are you?”  _Please, God, don’t let anything have happened to her._   He barely glanced around the ruined hall as he barreled through the front area, scanning for his wife.  “Brooke!  Answer me!”

The front desk she’d been manning that morning was gone, burnt to a crisp by whatever had breached the lockdown wards, and the dueling hall’s large front windows, reminiscent of the massive drugstore windows of his childhood, were shattered; glass coated the floor, broken and tinged with blood.  The sight of the red stains made his own blood run cold.  “Brooke!  Where are you?  Please, _answer me!_ ”

Part of him couldn’t help it; even as he searched frantically for Brooke, he saw the graffiti on the walls: _MUDBLOOD GO HOME_ , _NO MUGGLES HERE_ , and even _MAGIC IS MIGHT_.  And proudly emblazoned on one of the walls was a green skull with a snake coming out of its mouth.  Anything that could be smashed and ripped apart _was_ smashed and ripped; Grant slid to a halt, dodging around a dueling platform whose wards were wildly fluctuating, the runes that powered said wards cracked and misshapen.  The dueling platform he’d asked Brooke to look at…  His gaze locked on his office door, broken in half and clinging to its one remaining hinge with a stray scrap of metal.  The wizard’s wand, already in his hand, flicked at the door; he ignored the fact that he was adding to the mess as the door flew out of his path and slammed into the broken wards behind him.  Both door and wards fizzled, the wards falling and the door charring as it finally hit the ground with a _crash_.

“ _Brooke, where are you?!?_ ” Grant shouted as he skidded into the doorway of his office.  “ _BROOKE!_ ” he howled as he spotted her, buried under his office drawers and files; she wasn’t moving and her hair spread around her head like a fan, mixed with blood.  _Please, God, no; not my Brooke, please not my Brooke…_   His first instinct was to run to her, uncover her, and worry about the rest later, but his old training kicked in with a vengeance; instead, he swore and pushed off from the doorway, going _away_ from Brooke as he hurtled towards the dueling hall’s Floo.

Grant fought past the wreckage of the hall, heavier close to the fireplace and his dueling hall’s Apparition Point, snarling words that his wife would have his _head_ for, but he hardly cared.  _Please, God, don’t take her away from me,_ he begged silently, flinging his hand forward, yelling the spells to clear the debris from the Floo.  A second spell lit the fire and Grant darted left to scoop up a handful of Floo Powder.  “Auror Division!” he ordered, smashing the powder into the fire.  As soon as the flames turned green, he stuck his head through, glaring at the on-duty Auror on the other side.

In a bored tone, without even looking up from his magazine, the Auror inquired, “This is the Auror Division, what is your emergency and Floo of origin?”

“I’m at the Shiloh Dueling Hall; my wife has been attacked!”

* * * * *

The good news: he was officially cleared for duty again.  The bad news: he’d been reissued a sling with _strict_ orders to _keep it on_ at _all times_ for the next week _and_ threatened with an immediate revocation of his cleared status if he disobeyed.  And _just_ to complete the humiliation, the doctor had issued his commands in front of his team.  And Commander Holleran.

“So what happened to the old sling, Sarge?” Jules teased as soon as the doctor was gone.  Greg shot her a black look, one she ignored with the effortlessness of someone who followed doctor’s orders when injured.  He’d get her for that later…much later, when his arm felt better.

“Did you burn it?” Spike asked eagerly.  “Or did you let the kids do it?”

“They never saw it,” Greg growled, only to flinch as he realized he’d said that in front of his boss.  _Oops._

“Sergeant,” Commander Holleran chided.  “I _do_ remember that you were supposed to use the sling for this entire weekend.  Are you saying you ditched it before you even got home?”

Greg deflated, his eyes dropping to the floor.  “I didn’t want them to worry,” he muttered, low enough that none of his team heard him.

“What was that, Boss?” Ed inquired, casting Greg an expectant look and crossing his arms when Greg didn’t immediately respond.  The other members of the team leaned in, the teasing written _all_ over their faces.  _I am going to get_ all _of you for this…_

“I said,” Greg repeated, his voice rising in a touch of irritation, though he didn’t look up, “I didn’t want them to worry.”

Lou’s eyes lit with understanding, a touch of sympathy, and a wry dash of humor.  “How long before they figured it out anyway?”  When his teammates turned and stared at him, he grinned.  “Come on guys, they’re living with Sarge.  I bet they saw through him as soon as he walked through the door.”

“Sucker bet,” Spike and Wordy retorted at the same time.

“Thirded,” Sam put in wryly.  “We might’ve resented our wizard handlers on the Squib Squad, but one thing you never hid from them was an injury.  They’d sniff you out in no time flat.”

Ed arched a brow, then looked at his boss and smirked.  “So, basically, you ditched the sling for nothing?”

Greg grumbled, but nodded agreement nonetheless.  _Wonder if I can rope the kids into helping me prank them?_

The team leader jerked his thumb at Sam, Wordy, and Spike, his smirk growing wider.  “They’re right; that _was_ a sucker bet.”

_No…a sucker bet is taunting your boss when he’s down and forgetting he has two pranksters in residence…_

“Sarge buys the first round after work,” Wordy called, giving his boss a expression full of mischief.  “I’m thinking butterbeer?”

“Sold,” Lou agreed an instant later.

Greg pulled a face.  “Okay, but!”  He waited until he had his team’s attention.  “ _This_ time, I’m _not_ getting pumpkin juice.  One of you pick up a six-pack of root beer, okay?  I’ll pay you back.”

“I can do that,” Jules volunteered, making a face herself.  “That pumpkin juice stuff is _way_ too sweet.”

_Just for that, Jules, you get off scot-free when I prank the_ rest _of them…with_ mio nipotes’ _help, of course._

* * * * *

The Healers dug Brooke out from under the wreckage in Grant’s office as two patrol Aurors poked around and documented the damage to Grant’s business.  It was all very unhurried; neither the Aurors nor the Healers appeared to be overly concerned with Brooke’s injuries or the blatant destruction of the Taylors’ livelihood.

Even when one of the Healers found a note taped to Brooke’s back, a vicious, angry screed at Grant and his decision to permit _Muggles_ in his dueling hall, complete with threats towards Grant’s two employees, the Auror were unperturbed.  They finished documenting the damage and promised to get back to Grant ‘in a day or two’.  The Healers Portkeyed Brooke to St. Mungo’s after making their own lazy, drawled promise to keep Grant apprised of his wife’s status.

Once they were gone, Grant let out his breath in an angry hiss and turned his left hand over, glaring at the copy he’d surreptitiously made of the note the Healers had found.  If the patrol Aurors wouldn’t help him and his wife, he’d just have to find someone who _would_.

* * * * *

Greg did his best to avoid acting sulky, no matter how tempting that was; he was forbidden from doing paperwork or, indeed, anything that would put strain on his arm and back.  That cut out the majority of his usual activities – not to mention _severely_ restricted his workout – and left him with only a few things he could use to keep himself busy.  If he’d known that he was going to be _this_ restricted, he’d have used up a sick day or two, but it was a bit late for that now.

The Sergeant was forced to satisfy himself by bringing Team Two’s Sergeant up-to-speed on several upcoming warrants originally slated for Team One to handle.  Most of them would fall on Team Two’s shoulders, two could be put off for a week while Greg’s injuries healed, and one more had just been dropped from their roster.  Apparently, Homicide needed a bit more time to build up the case for that particular warrant.  And, naturally, none of that included the various and sundry hot calls that Team Two was now on tap for.

Winnie, behind her dispatcher desk as usual, piped up as Greg wound down.  “I have Team Two listed as the primary team for any hot calls for the rest of this shift.”

“Thanks, Winnie,” Team Two’s Sergeant replied, a somewhat cocky grin flashing on his face.  “Sorry it had to happen like this, Parker, but my team’s looking forward to being primary for a week or two.”

“It’s not nearly as glamorous as it looks,” Parker jibed back, slapping his negotiator smile on in lieu of the frown that threatened.  “Best of luck to you with those warrants.”

“Copy that.  Get well soon.”

“Thanks,” Greg remarked to his counterpart’s back.  Avoiding Winnie’s sympathetic expression, he rubbed his face with his left hand and debated what to do next.  With a slight internal sigh, he decided to get what exercise he could and enjoy the break from the endless paperwork.  If only that break didn’t come with a mountain of unfinished paperwork once it was over…

* * * * *

Giles frowned, rubbing one hand against his chin as he listened to Grant’s explanation with half an ear; he was more intent on the short note the subjects had left behind.  “How long has the vandalism been going on?” he asked abruptly, cutting Grant off mid-word.

Grant stopped, saying nothing, and when Giles looked up, the other man’s shoulders were slumped and even shook a little; he sank into the one other upright chair left in his small office.  “Ever since the tournament,” Grant admitted.  “Maybe even before it; there were several parents who were very angry with my decision to let Muggles come to the dueling hall.  I got several Howlers **(4)** and the day before the tournament, someone tried to break through our security wards.”

“That’s when you started using the lockdown ward,” Giles mused thoughtfully.

“Yeah,” Grant confirmed, burying his face in his hands.  “This is all my fault, if I hadn’t agreed to that tournament…”

“If this is your fault, then it’s _my_ fault too, for encouraging you,” Giles shot back, pushing himself to his feet and refusing to let Taylor wallow in self-pity and guilt.  “Leave the blame where it belongs, Grant.  With the _fanatics_ who attacked your wife and wrecked your business.”  Giles grabbed the other man’s shoulders and shook them, just a bit.  “Brooke is still alive and we’ve got time to cut this off at the pass.  It’s going to be all right, Grant, I promise.  I won’t let anything happen to your people.”

Grant didn’t bother pointing out that Giles _couldn’t_ promise, not really.  Instead, he drew in a breath and looked up at the Auror.  “What do we do now?”

Giles smirked, a touch of glee in his eyes.  “Now?  Now I call in the cavalry.”

 

[3] A popular Wizarding beverage, sold to young and old alike, though it does possess a slight amount of alcohol.

[4] A magical letter that screams its message in the very high and loud voice of the sender.  If the recipient doesn’t open the Howler immediately, it begins to smoke and will explode if not opened quickly enough.  Once the message finishes, it bursts into flames and leaves only ashes behind.


	3. In Defense of the Eagles

Winnie picked up with a brisk, “Strategic Response Unit.”

“Auror Camden?  Auror Onasi…I’m not sure if you remember me…”

“I do,” Winnie replied, feeling her pulse pick up in anticipation of a hot call, then she frowned, glancing down at her computer screen and mentally sorting through the ramifications of going against Sergeant Parker’s doctor orders.  “Team Two is primary today, but I’m guessing you need Team One, am I right?”

“Ye-es?”  Confirmation and question.

Winnie scowled and explained, “Sergeant Parker is on medical restriction right now.”  A breath, then, “Address?”

Auror Onasi audibly jerked, then reeled off what Winnie suspected was the closest address, rather than the _actual_ address.

“Copy that, I’ll have them rolling in your direction ASAP,” Winnie promised, hanging up once Auror Onasi acknowledged.  Drawing a deep breath, she hit the alarm, keyed her headset, and called, “Team One, hot call!”

Predictably, Team Two’s Sergeant reached her desk first, a thundercloud on his face.  “Winnie, _we’re_ primary,” he protested loudly over the alarm.

Winnie didn’t back down.  “I’m sorry, sir, but your team isn’t cleared for this call.”

“Parker’s on _medical restriction_!”

“That doesn’t matter,” Ed remarked, leaning over the desk.  “Not for this call.  Winnie, any details?”

“Not yet,” Winnie replied.  “Constable Onasi said he’d brief you when you got there.  Something about ‘seeing is believing’.”

Ed’s jaw tightened, but he nodded and straightened.  “Okay, feed us the address on the fly, Winnie.”

“Copy that,” Winnie agreed, grateful when she spotted Commander Holleran ushering the apoplectic Team Two Sergeant to the side.  He’d probably take it better from Commander Holleran than her, anyway.

* * * * *

Team One’s trucks howled through the streets as Greg speed-dialed Auror Onasi’s phone and hastily added the commands to hook his own phone into the team’s headsets.  When Onasi picked up, Greg demanded, “What’s going on, Auror Onasi?”

A sigh.  “I’m at the Shiloh Dueling Academy…or rather, what’s _left_ of it.”  Greg hissed in shock, trading a worried look with Eddie.  “Someone – maybe several someones – broke through the Academy’s lockdown ward.”  A grim pause.  “Parker, they _demolished_ most of the hall and Brooke Taylor’s in St. Mungo’s.  And _just_ to make things even _better_ , not _only_ did the patrol Aurors treat this like a non-event, they _ignored_ the fact that a threatening letter was left on Mrs. Taylor’s body.  If you go by _their_ report, nothing happened except a broken window or two.”

“Who’d they threaten?” Jules demanded before her Sergeant could.

On the other end of the line, Onasi jumped, but, after a breathless, “ _Merlin’s beard!_ ” he answered.  “Taylor’s two employees: Brady Owens and J.T. Hawkins.”  There was another voice in the background, then Onasi snorted once in amusement and added, “Make that J.T. Hawkins _Junior_.”

“Spike,” Greg ordered.

“On it, Boss,” Spike confirmed.  “Don’t suppose you have their addresses handy, do you, Auror Onasi?”

A rustling, then, “Taylor’s looking, Auror Scarlatti, but his office is a _mess_.  And these no-good-excuses for wizards might have taken them.”

“Copy that,” the bomb tech acknowledged, his voice heavy.  “Okay, Boss; I’ve got a couple ‘Brady Owens’ and ‘J.T. Hawkins’ in Toronto, any way to narrow it down?”

“Caucasian, maybe middle thirties for Owens?” Wordy offered.

“Same age for Hawkins,” Ed agreed, “Hawkins is black, though.”

“We saw them both, didn’t we?  At the tournament?” Lou mused, a considering note in his tone.

“Speaking of the tournament,” Sam broke in, “Is that why the Academy was attacked?”

The heavy sigh from Auror Onasi said it all.

Grim, Sergeant Parker cut in once more.  “Spike, narrow down the addresses and get us a list we can run past Taylor, all right?  Eddie?”

“Two minutes,” Ed replied.

“Good.  Auror Onasi, meet us outside the gateway, please.”

“On my way, Sergeant,” Onasi promised.

* * * * *

Parker didn’t bother to offer any reprimands when Sam and Jules swore at the sight of the wrecked dueling hall.  ‘What’s _left_ of it’ actually fit the situation quite well the Sergeant decided as Sam darted in front to heft the damaged scrap of door out of his teammates’ path.  Greg automatically cradled his right arm in its sling to keep it from getting jostled as he ducked under the partially melted and collapsed doorway.  As he and Jules moved farther inside, Auror Onasi maneuvered past them to head for what Greg suspected was the Floo.

Inside wasn’t any better, not with the graffiti sprayed on what seemed like every wall and the once immaculate dueling platforms in ruins.  “This looks like a tornado came through,” Jules observed, a scowl in her voice.

“More like a hurricane,” Sam rejoined, his own voice soft in horror.  “All that’s missing is the Dark Mark, Boss.”

“Isn’t it over there, Sam?” Jules queried, pointing at the macabre green skull with its eerie snake tongue.

“Yeah, that’s it, Jules, but during the Wars, the Death Eaters used to leave it above their targets; like what Goyle did when he took that realtor’s office hostage,” Sam explained, keeping his tone low.  “It was a special, custom-made spell that only the Death Eaters used.”

“Okay,” Greg considered, glancing between the graffiti skull and his sniper.  “What’s that tell you, Sam?”

Sam jerked in surprise, then thought for a second.  “Um…”  Looking around again, he drew a breath.  “I don’t think we’re dealing with actual Death Eaters, Boss.  Otherwise they’d have left the Dark Mark behind and Mrs. Taylor,” he cringed, “she wouldn’t have survived.”

“But whoever it is, definitely agrees with the Death Eaters,” Jules opined, hands on hips.  “This is too thorough to be a random prank, Sarge.  A random prank is a brick through the window or a threatening phone…err, Floo call.”

Brown eyes hardened as his two subordinates made their observations.  “Also too specific to be a random prank, Jules,” the Sergeant added.  “Auror Onasi informed us en route that Mr. Taylor’s employees were each named in the note left behind.”  He glanced over the hall again.  “Priority right now is going to be getting Taylor’s employees and their families into protective custody before our subjects can strike.”

“Take away their target,” Sam muttered, nodding to himself.

“Exactly, Sam.”  Greg keyed his radio.  “Spike, have you been able to find our two employees yet?”

“J.T. Hawkins Jr. was easy once we narrowed the demographics, Sarge, but I can’t take credit.  Lou grabbed the laptop and beat me to him.  Brady Owens is turning out to be a lot harder.  I’ve narrowed it down to four possible addresses, but I can’t narrow it down any further ‘cause wizards don’t have travel times to worry about.”

“Okay, okay.”  Greg thought for a moment, then ordered, “Eddie, take Wordy and Lou; head for Hawkins’ residence and see if you can spot any trouble.”

“Should we get him out?” Ed asked.

“I’d like to get them out simultaneously.  If the subjects are watching and they see us pull one out, but not the other…”

“The subjects could strike while we’re still hunting the address down,” Lou concluded for his Sergeant.

Spike piped up again, even as he worked, “Subjects could have also left a surprise or two.  If the hall’s as trashed as Onasi said…”

“Worse,” Sam growled.

“…okay, worse,” Spike picked up again, not missing a beat, “If they’re serious enough to break through a lockdown ward, assault Mrs. Taylor, _and_ leave us a note, they might be serious enough to set up a trap.”

“For who, though?” Wordy questioned, his voice worried, “Us or the employees?”

Greg’s eyes narrowed a bit further as he considered his team’s opinions.  “Eddie, I’m sending Jules with you, just in case we need a negotiator on both teams.”

“Copy,” Ed agreed.

The Sergeant turned from his conversation to regard a worried Grant Taylor.  “Mr. Taylor, have you had any luck finding those addresses?”

“No,” Taylor replied, worry increasing.  “I think they might have taken them.”

A brisk nod.  “Spike’s found a couple possibles.  Would you recognize the address if you saw it?”

“Yes.”  No doubt, no hesitation.

“Good.”  Parker looked over Taylor’s shoulder at Onasi.  “My team is going to get Mr. Taylor’s employees into protective custody.”

“That works,” Auror Onasi acknowledged.  “We’ll handle this end, Sergeant.”

“All right,” Greg murmured.  “Mr. Taylor, let’s get you out to the Command Truck.”

* * * * *

Grant hadn’t been in the Muggle world since his graduation; even his wedding had been in the magical world.  He trailed after Sergeant Parker and Auror Braddock willingly enough, but once through the gateway, he gawped at the Command Truck, unnerved by the large Muggle vehicle.  Sergeant Parker opened up the door and glanced over his shoulder, amusement flashing across his face at the look on Grant’s.

“Come on, Mr. Taylor; the faster we nail down that address, the sooner we can get your employee out of harm’s way.”

The thought of Brady and J.T. at the mercy of the animals who’d attacked his beloved wife was enough to get Grant moving again and, at Parker’s gesture, he stepped up into the Muggle vehicle.  Once inside, he spotted, “Constable Scarlatti?”

The constable looked over his shoulder and lit up.  “Hi, Mr. Taylor.”  Shuffling aside, he gestured to the device in front of him.  “I’ve got all four possible addresses up on the screen.”

Wary, Grant moved closer, squinting at the bright panel.  “So I just look?”

“Yep,” Constable Scarlatti confirmed cheerfully.

Once again, Grant screwed up his courage in the face of the unknown and examined what he finally realized was a _computer_.  He’d seen them before, back before he’d gotten his letter to the Toronto School of Magic.  But even though the computers of his pre-magic childhood and _this_ computer were worlds apart, the addresses on the screen were easy enough to read.  And one of them was _familiar_.  Pointing to it, he asked, “Could you show me what’s around that address?  I _think_ it’s that one, but I want to be sure.”

Constable Scarlatti scooted his chair over, nodding as he looked at the address.  “Sure thing,” he agreed, tapping at the keyboard.  As Grant watched, amazed, a map appeared on the screen with the address he’d chosen in the center and several ‘points of interest’ were highlighted around the address.  “How’s that?”

For a moment, Grant wasn’t sure, but then he spotted a restaurant Brady had mentioned to him once, lamenting that the restaurant in question could never deliver to the dueling hall.  “Pearly’s; I’ve heard Brady mention it a couple times.”

A grin appeared on the constable’s face.  “Boss, we’ve got an address,” he reported.  Grant was puzzled; Sergeant Parker hadn’t come inside the Command Truck, so how could Constable Scarlatti talk to him?  The grin grew wider at Grant’s puzzlement, though the constable didn’t say anything, just nodded as if someone was talking to him.  After a minute, he remarked, “Got it, Boss,” and stood up, turning his attention back to Grant.  “Sarge wants you to head back to your hall.  We’ll handle the rest.”

Protest rose instantly.  “We’ve been having trouble for weeks, Constable.  Brady and J.T. might think this is just more of the same.”

Constable Scarlatti frowned at that.  “We’re Aurors, Mr. Taylor, and this wouldn’t be the first time we’ve had to convince people we’re here to help.  Please, head back to the dueling hall; Auror Onasi will take you to your wife and once your employees are out of harm’s way, we’ll track down the wizards who attacked your business.”

“No, you don’t understand,” Grant argued back.  “When the harassment and vandalism first started, we made arrangements.  Passphrases, questions that only the three of us knew the answers to, even regular _Patronus_ checks.”

“ _Patronus_ checks?” Auror Scarlatti queried, tilting his head to the side.  “How would you…”  Pause.  “Oh, I get it; check the _Patronus_ ‘cause it can’t be duplicated.”

“Exactly,” Grant confirmed.  “Neither Brady nor J.T. will trust you unless _I’m_ with you.”  He grimaced and added, “We alternate the passphrases and questions, but every third or fifth day is the _Patronus_ check.”

“Let me guess,” Auror Scarlatti cut in, sounding resigned.  “Today’s the next _Patronus_ check.”  When Grant nodded once, he sighed and turned away.  “Sarge, Mr. Taylor’s just informed me that our subjects are at the point where the only person they’ll trust is him.  And they’re going to want to see his _Patronus_.”  Another sigh.  “Boss, both addresses are in tech neighborhoods.  I don’t know what the range on a _Patronus_ is, but if it’s not cast right outside the subject houses, people are going to see it.”

* * * * *

Lou frowned at the information and, in the driver seat, Ed’s frustration was evidenced in a slam of his fist against the steering wheel and a soft curse.

“So much for getting them out simultaneously,” Wordy remarked over the comm from his spot in the second truck, examining the unassuming house they were approaching.

Ed inclined his head.  “Boss, how do we want to play this?  Pull Brady out first and hope we can spot any trouble before it hits here?”

“Or…” their Sergeant mused, “I could send Sam back to the dueling hall to get Onasi.  He could Apparate Taylor to your location as soon as we convince Brady.”

“Don’t we need Onasi to corral the other Aurors?” Jules parried, sounding unhappy even as she spoke.  “Sounded like he needed to be there or otherwise most of them won’t take this seriously.”

“You’d think the Aurors at least _would_ take this seriously,” Wordy complained, “We’ve only been working with them for _three_ years.”  Sarcasm reeked and he added, rather cuttingly, “Shouldn’t they have figured out by now that techies aren’t witch-burning fanatics anymore?”

“They don’t care,” Lou opined, scanning the street and sidewalk for anything out of place.  “We might be useful in a pinch, Wordy, but I bet most of those Aurors think _we’re_ the exception to the rule, if they even think it at all.”

“And let’s face it,” Jules chimed in, “If the tech world ever found out magic was real, they’d go nuts.”

“What does _that_ have to do with behaving professionally enough to stop a group of thugs?” Wordy questioned, a touch incredulous.

“Well,” Jules considered, “Maybe our subjects are afraid that the Statute of Secrecy will be broken if too many techie parents keep up contact with their kids.”  At the skeptical look she got from Wordy and the suppressed snort from Ed, she shrugged.  “Or maybe they’re elitists who don’t care if tech-borns and half-bloods are cut off from their parents and want to keep it that way, just to preserve their status quo.”

“Even if that means attacking fellow magicals,” Lou rumbled, spotting something.  Shifting to the side, he tapped Ed’s shoulder.  “Hey, you see that box on the porch?”

His fellow constables immediately reacted; Ed sped up, just a bit, scanning the street even more intently and shooting a few looks in the direction of the porch.

In the truck behind them, Wordy pulled out a pair of binoculars and Jules, behind the wheel, bounced anxiously in her seat, ready to act on a moment’s notice.  “I see it,” Wordy reported.  “Looks like a package; pretty big one, too.”

Lou eyed the package, his instincts twanging.  After a few seconds, dark eyes widened.  “Spike, ask Taylor if either of his employees get anything through tech mail.”  When Ed cast the less-lethal specialist a sidelong look, Lou tersely explained, “Wizards use owls for mail, remember?  These two might live in a tech area, but I’d bet my badge they don’t get much – if any – tech-side mail.”

“And you’d win that bet, Lou,” Spike sang out an instant later.  “According to Mr. Taylor, both of his employees have owl redirects that send all their mail to the dueling hall.”

Understanding rippled through both trucks, though it was Jules who remarked, “So none of their neighbors notice the owls coming and going all the time.”

“Right on the dot, Jules,” Spike praised.  “Lou, buddy, tell me about our mystery package.  Everything you can from right where you are.”

“You don’t want me to reckie it?” Lou inquired, surprise in his voice.

“Nope,” Spike replied, popping the ‘p’.  “We’re almost to Brady’s house and if he’s got a present, too, I’m going to send Babycakes in to take a look-see.”

“Copy that,” Lou acknowledged, shifting gears to his role as Spike’s bomb tech backup.  He pulled out his own pair of binoculars and trained them on the package.  “All right, looks to be a rectangular box with plain brown wrapping.  From this distance, I can’t tell if there’s an address on it.”

“We’ll worry about little details like that later,” Spike reassured his friend.

“We’ve arrived at the second location,” Sam broke in.  “I see a similar package on the second subject’s front porch.”

“Guys, I’m gonna make a preemptive call on this one.”  Spike’s lightheartedness was gone, replaced by the right-down-to-business bomb tech.  “Until I can get Babycakes in for a closer look, do not approach the package.  In fact, don’t even approach the house; I’ve got no idea what kind of range or detection these things might have.”

Their Boss backed Spike up.  “Team One, stand down; we have two possible package bombs.”


	4. Fly High, Spirits Soar

“Repeat, we have two possible package bombs,” Greg announced grimly.  “Winnie, I’m going to read off two addresses; see if you can get telephone numbers for either one.  If we can establish communication, I’ll warn both of our subjects to stay indoors until we can deal with the bombs.”

“Copy that, Sarge,” Winnie acknowledged briskly.  Once he’d read off the addresses, he listened to the faint sounds of her keyboard clicking.  “Okay,” she began slowly, “No phone number for Owens, but I _do_ have a phone number for Hawkins.”

Sarge squirmed around in his seat, mentally griping at the lousy sling.  He released the clip on the sling, sighing in relief as his right arm was released; pulling up his notebook binder, he requested, “All right, Winnie, read it off.”  The pen jerked a little as he wrote, but Parker hardly cared about that – or the doctor’s orders he was now blatantly disobeying.  “Okay, Winnie, got it.  Any news from Auror Onasi?”

“Nothing yet, sorry.”

“Keep me updated,” Greg requested before switching gears.

“Sarge,” Sam cut in before Greg could dial, “We can send a _Patronus_ in to warn Owens.”

“No, no, no, Sam,” Spike cut him off.  “No magic near the package; not till Babycakes can get a look at it.  Magic might set the whole thing off.”

Sam’s disappointment was clear.  “So how do we warn Owens to stay inside?”

“I don’t think we _can_ , Sam,” Greg remarked, regret showing.  “Spike, if it’s possible, position Babycakes to block the front door.”

“Copy,” Spike agreed at once.

Order given and received, Greg focused back on the phone number written in his binder.  Rapidly, he dialed the one number he did have.  It was _critical_ that they get through to Hawkins before he opened his front door.

The phone rang four times before it was picked up with a hesitant, wary, “Hello?”

“Mr. Hawkins, my name is Sergeant Greg Parker,” Greg began.  “A member of my team has spotted a suspicious package on your front porch and we’d like you to stay inside until we can investigate.”

“Is this a prank call?” Hawkins demanded, suspicion dripping from every word.  “ ‘Cause I’m fed up!  You lot are pieces of work, let me tell you!  First you blacklist us, _just_ ‘cause we think _all_ parents should be able to see their kids duel and now you’re using _Muggle_ technology?”

“Sir, this is not a prank,” Greg snapped, honestly afraid he’d just goaded the man into getting _closer_ to the suspected bomb.  He drew a deep breath, thinking fast, then threw the next words out, speaking as rapidly as he dared.  “Mr. Hawkins, my nephew is one of the kids you’ve been teaching.  Yesterday, Mr. Taylor told me that my nephew lost his wand in a duel and threw an _Astrice_ before you could call the match.  Please, Mr. Hawkins, do _not_ get close to your front porch!”  The Sergeant let his head fall back in relief when the sound of footsteps in the background halted.

For an instant, silence hung.  “You’re _that_ Parker, huh?”  Chagrin rang in the sentence.

A wry half-smile appeared.  “Yes, sir, I’m _that_ Parker.”  He let that sink in, then continued, “For your safety and that of your family, please, remain in the house until you hear from either myself or Mr. Taylor.”

“We can’t stay in here forever,” Hawkins pointed out, although he’d calmed down.

“You won’t have to,” Greg reassured the man.  “My team is working on this and we’ll have you and your family out soon.”

It took a minute, but at last Hawkins remarked, “Okay, we’ll do that, Sergeant Parker.  Ah, sorry about…”

“Don’t worry about it, sir; believe me, I’ve heard worse,” Greg replied before hanging up.  Sam tossed him a narrow-eyed glare and Greg sighed before putting his sling back together.  “Spike, how’s it look?” he asked as he clipped the shoulder strap to the front of the sling.

* * * * *

“Looks terrible,” was Spike’s initial assessment as he examined the screen on his control unit.  Ever since being upgraded with runes and all sorts of other gobliny magical technology, Babycakes hadn’t needed a physical link to her control unit, something that delighted her geeky bomb tech.

The first few bomb calls after her initial upgrade had been…interesting.  At times, he’d felt like everything worked _except_ whatever tool he needed _most_ for that particular bomb call.  Fortunately, he’d always been able to compensate and the goblin artisans seemed to take personal offense to the fact that Babycakes wasn’t performing as expected.

So it was a Babycakes 7.0 that ‘climbed’ the stairs to the suspect package, with no less than three separate scanners mounted on her frame, in _addition_ to her usual controller camera, and a dozen different bomb defusing tools available for immediate use without pulling the robot back.  True, most of those tools were intended for use with tech-based bombs, but Spike was confident he could at least nail down whether they were dealing with a bomb or not.  Then he got a good look and resisted the urge to swear.

“Boss, if this _isn’t_ a magical bomb, I need a refresher course, ‘cause it sure _looks_ like one.  We’ve got an Erumpent Potion **(5)** in there, plus Garroting Gas **(6)**.  I guess whoever made this thing thinks there’s no such thing as too dead.  Or they’re hoping for lots of collateral damage.”

“Overkill,” Sam growled, before inquiring, “Motion sensitive?” a wary note in his voice.

“Yep,” Spike confirmed, mock-cheerful.  “Babycakes has got two charms, linked together.  _Calor Motum Deprehensio_ **(7)** hooked into a _Magicae Solvo_ **(8)**.  Whoever put this together sure planned ahead.  The first spell detects any heat or movement – lucky for us, it’s about the same as a mercury switch or we’d already be sunk – and it sets off the second spell, releasing the two potions… _and_ , Kaboom!  That one package can send the whole house up, Sarge.  And maybe the two neighbor houses, too.”

“Can you disarm it?”

Spike grinned, an edge to his grin and his voice that his teammates only rarely heard.  “ _I_ can’t, but Babycakes _can_.  The last time I took her in, the goblins added in an experimental curse-breaker toolset.  As long as she can identify the spell, she can disarm it.”  Actually, it was a bit more complicated than that, but his teammates didn’t need to know that.

“What about the potions?” Sam cut in.

The grin dimmed, but Spike was undaunted.  “Potions are a little harder,” he admitted.  “Apparently, there’s no one-size-fits-all neutralizer for them, so the goblins added a little something to let Babycakes pick things up without touching them.”

Even as the tech spoke, his hands flew across the sub-controller, his eyes narrowing as Babycakes’ ‘wand’ moved in the movements needed to break the first spell.  Right above the sub-controller’s joystick, a small screen displayed which movements he still needed to do, reminding him of an action sequence in a video game.  Good thing he’d always been good at nailing those on his first run-through.  Babycakes blipped, confirming the first spell was down and Spike nodded to himself, drawing in a steadying breath before tackling the second spell.  The second spell was, surprisingly, harder and there were a few moments when Spike cringed, but he stayed focused on the joystick and screen, successfully disabling the second spell.

Sweat trickled down Spike’s back, but he wasn’t done yet.  Once Babycakes confirmed the spells were neutralized, he reported, “Spells are down.”  Flicking a switch, he added, “Moving the package to a safe location for disposal.”

Babycakes blurred a bit to Spike’s vision and he automatically shook his head, squinting and shaking off the sudden compulsion to look away from the robot.  When the compulsion pushed at him again, he slipped one hand down to his pocket and touched his Auror badge, letting out a silent sigh.  The glamour was working precisely as intended, but the Muggle-Repelling Charm wasn’t supposed to apply to _him_ as Babycakes’ operator.  _Babycakes 8.0, here we come,_ he decided, a trifle glum.  Still, at least she’d successfully levitated the bomb; they didn’t need that Erumpent Potion spilling at the last step.

 “Sam, after the last time they upgraded Babycakes, I added a number to all our phones,” Spike called, switching back to Babycakes’ primary control unit.  “Could you call the Gringotts Team One liaison and tell him I’m about to tag a bomb with two deadly potions for disposal?”

“Copy,” Sam agreed.

While Sam called the goblins, Spike brought Babycakes back down the front steps and tagged the bomb with a low level Gringotts tracking charm.  He grinned as Babycakes lowered the bomb to the front sidewalk, not tilting it even a millimeter.  The tech glanced over his shoulder, smirking as Sam hung up.  Even as Spike turned back, the bomb glowed white, then vanished.  “We’re clear,” Spike called.  “Bomb’s disposed of.  I’ll get Babycakes loaded while you guys talk our subject out of his nice, warm house.”

* * * * *

If Grant hadn’t seen it with his own two eyes, he wouldn’t have believed it; _Muggles_ successfully disarming a _magical_ trap?  Then shame flooded him; he was _Muggleborn_ , he more than most wizards should know better, should know that Mug…no, _Technologicals_ , darn it, weren’t helpless or weak.  But he hadn’t; he’d fallen into the same trap as just about everyone else, assuming that just because techies didn’t have magic, they were less capable than wizards.

_Is_ this _what my parents saw in me?  That_ I _was pushing them away, because_ I _saw them as helpless and weak?  That_ I _wouldn’t respect them, because_ they _didn’t have magic?_   The shame might have drowned him, except Sergeant Parker chose precisely that moment to say, “Okay, your turn, Mr. Taylor.”

_My turn?_   Grant blinked, then remembered and felt the tips of his ears turn red.  He pulled his wand, bracing himself and thinking through the message he needed to send.  “ _Expecto Patronum_ **(9)**,” he ordered firmly, watching as his eagle Patronus formed in front of him.  “Brady, it’s Grant.  The dueling hall’s been attacked and Brooke’s in the hospital.  I need you to come outside to meet me and the Aurors.  This week’s passphrase is ‘Non amittere fidem’.”  Grant flicked his wand and the eagle flew off, disappearing through the front door of Brady’s house.

“Interesting,” Sergeant Parker mused, eyeing him shrewdly.  “ ‘Never lose faith’, huh?”

“You know Latin?” Grant questioned in surprise.

The Sergeant chuckled.  “My mother was Italian,” he explained, “And Italian _is_ a Romance language, so I’ve a bit of a leg up.  Plus, most spells are in Latin and I need to be able to identify spells as an Auror.”

Grant felt a trifle foolish.  Of course any Auror worth their salt needed to know what spells were coming at them; an Auror without magic even moreso, as they couldn’t block or dispel spells like their magical colleagues could.

Fortunately for the embarrassed man, Brady chose that moment to come charging out his front door, tossing a locking spell behind him as he barreled down his front steps with a panicked, “Grant!”  Running right up to Grant and Sergeant Parker, Brady demanded, “Is Brooke okay?  What am I saying, are _you_ okay?  They attacked the hall?”

“Brady, Brady, calm down,” Grant broke in, grabbing his employee by his shoulders and shaking him.  “ _I’m_ okay, Brooke’s going to be just fine, and that’s what’s important.”

Brady drew in a shaky breath, breaking free to pace back and forth an instant.  That was when he finally noticed that the Aurors – had techie police uniforms.  “Grant, what the heck?  You said these guys were Aurors.”

“And we are,” Sergeant Parker countered, pulling his Auror badge out and displaying it.  Looking over at Auror Braddock, he added, “Sam, go help Spike finish loading up.”

“Copy that,” Sam agreed, darting off.

“Mr. Owens, my name is _Auror_ Sergeant Gregory Parker.  When the Shiloh Dueling Academy was attacked, a threatening message was left behind with threats towards yourself and your co-worker, Mr. Hawkins.”

“Merlin’s beard, they’re going after J.T., too?” Brady questioned, horror blazing.  “We’ve got to get him out of there!”

“Calm down, Mr. Owens,” Sergeant Parker chided.  “Members of my team are already in position, watching for any more trouble.”  Grant frowned at Parker’s truthful, albeit slightly misleading statement, but kept his mouth shut.

“Sarge,” Auror Braddock called, “We’re loaded up.”

“Copy that, Sam,” Sergeant Parker acknowledged.  “Mr. Owens, you can ride with myself and Auror Braddock or you can ride with Auror Scarlatti.  We don’t have enough room right now for you and Mr. Taylor to ride together, I’m afraid.  What’s your pleasure?”

* * * * *

Sam kept his smirk to himself as Mr. Owens, in the back seat, clung to his seatbelt and the handle right above his head, his mouth open in a silent scream as the SRU truck hurtled through the streets, siren wailing and lights flashing.  Sarge, in the passenger seat, had ditched his sling – _again_ – and was writing in his black binder, thinking out loud as he worked.

“Unlikely to be former Death Eaters, but also unlikely that this is their first offense.”

“Too much planning,” Sam agreed, slewing into the next turn.

“Among other things,” Sarge acknowledged absently without looking up.  “Sam, at least _try_ to leave a little more room between us and the other cars?”

“Sorry, Boss.”

“Spike, how would you rate the spells they used?  And where’d they get those potions?”

“Potions are gonna be tough, Boss,” Spike reported.  “Neither potion is all that hard to make, so all they’d need are the ingredients, a brass cauldron, and space to work.”

“Potions that deadly and that’s all they need?” Jules burst out.

“Even worse than that, Jules,” Spike added glumly, “The recipes for both are in your average, common, sixth-year Potions textbook.”

“And the spells?” Wordy asked, successfully cutting off the rising tide of indignation from his teammates.

“We got lucky there, Wordy.  Sloppy, sloppy work and really easy to disarm.”

“Spike…” Lou questioned, “Didn’t _Babycakes_ do the disarming?”

Spike’s sudden silence was rather – explicit.

“Darn it, Spike,” Ed growled, “ _You_ had to disarm the spells?”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Spike protested feebly, “Babycakes did most of the work, I just worked the controls.”

“Uh- _huh_ ,” Lou drawled, “How come I think it was a _lot_ more complicated than that?”

“I plead the fifth,” Spike shot back.

“Can’t do that,” Jules jibed, “We’re in _Canada_ , Spike.”

“Enough,” the Boss intervened, “Spike, we’ll discuss your definition of the phrase ‘most of the work’ later, but for now, you said the spells were sloppy?”  Sam glanced over, frowning at the tight lines on his Boss’s face and the unmistakable signs of fatigue and pain.

Over the comm, Spike sighed.  “Yeah, they were, Sarge.  Don’t get me wrong, they would’ve worked, but the spells themselves are low-power and…I don’t know… _crude_.  Like a pipe bomb made of flimsy second-rate materials; it’s still deadly, but it’s easy to disarm.”

“Four more blocks, Sarge,” Sam interjected.

“Copy that, Sam.  Spike, cut the siren,” Sarge ordered as he flicked off the siren for _their_ truck.  “And slow down; the last thing we want is to attract any more attention.”

Sam obediently slowed down, which gave him the time and the opening to hiss, “If Ed sees you out of that sling, he’ll bench you, Sarge.”  _And make mine and Spike’s next workout sheer torture._

The Boss tossed Sam an irritated look, but wriggled back into his sling with a quiet grumble.

* * * * *

It was actually a bit anti-climatic to watch as Spike – and Babycakes, don’t forget Babycakes – disarmed the second bomb.  Sam made his second call of the day to Gringotts, politely requesting another bomb disposal and also requesting that Gringotts forward their findings to the Auror Division.  The goblin on the other end grunted and agreed, though he informed Sam rather scathingly that the Auror Division _would_ be charged for Gringotts’ time and service.

“Sarge, they’ve got the second bomb and they’ll send the data to the Auror Division, but, um…”

“Charging a fee?” Sarge finished for him.  When Sam ducked his head, the Boss chuckled.  “Don’t worry, Sam; all of that got arranged right about the time Babycakes got her first upgrade.”  Turning toward Taylor, Sarge added, “How about you do the honors, Mr. Taylor?  Then we’ll get all of you back to the dueling hall and Auror Onasi will handle things from there.”

Taylor nodded, conjuring his second _Patronus_ for the day as Sam headed over to help Spike load Babycakes up again.  Spike was shaking and sweating, something Sam frowned at.  “What’s up?” he questioned, “You’ve disarmed bombs before.”

Spike grimaced.  “Not magical bombs, Samtastic,” he explained.  “And I can’t practice, either.”

“Why not?”

Another grimace.  “Oh, sure, I could practice the spell disarm thing,” Spike admitted, “But they only just got done with this version of Babycakes and I’m already going to have to take her back; the Muggle-Repelling Charms when she does the levitation affected me and they aren’t supposed to.  Plus, think about all the spells we’ve learned about.  In theory, any _one_ of them could end up as part of a magical bomb.”

“So basically, you haven’t been able to train and you have no idea what to train for?”

Spike considered, then nodded, looking glum.

“We’ll figure it out, Spike,” Lou spoke up from behind them.  “And look on the bright side; we saved lives today.  _You_ saved lives today.”

Lou earned a wan smile from his best friend.  “Thanks, buddy,” Spike murmured as he finished loading Babycakes.

* * * * *

The call came through as Team One was answering the eager questions from J.T.’s three kids and futilely trying to get the bouncing youngsters in the trucks.  Grant watched as Sergeant Parker turned away, speaking too softly to be overheard.  J.T.’s wife wandered over to Grant, laying a comforting hand on Grant’s arm and squeezing, her support clear.  Grant, wrestling anew with his shame and the realizations he’d made regarding his parents, didn’t feel like he deserved the comfort, but neither could he muster the will to push said comfort away.

Sergeant Parker nodded once, lowering the techie device and returning it to his uniform.  When he turned around, he gave Grant an encouraging smile and strode over.  “Auror Onasi just called and the wizards responsible are all in custody.”

“It’s over?” Grant managed, blinking back a tear or two.

The smile turned sympathetic.  “Well, I’m afraid that doesn’t take away the damage to your business or the injuries your wife sustained.”

Grant could fill in the rest; Sergeant Parker wasn’t fool enough to think that _this_ group was the _only_ group; there were still plenty of wizards and witches angry at Grant and his business for welcoming tech-borns and their parents with open arms.  Even so, “But for today, it’s over?”

A considering expression, then Sergeant Parker inclined his head.  “I think that’s a safe assumption, Mr. Taylor.  However, Auror Onasi did request that we bring you, your employees, and Mr. Hawkins’ family back to Shiloh Dueling Academy to be interviewed regarding the threats and incidents of the past several weeks.”

“We can do that,” Grant agreed, forcing a smile on his face.  And then, he could figure out what to do next, now that everything he’d ever worked for had turned to ash.  Right along with his dream to someday rekindle a relationship with his parents…

 

[5] A potion that explodes when it interacts with anything other than itself

[6] The fumes of a potion that cause victims who breathe it in to choke to death

[7] Latin for ‘heat motion detect’

[8] Latin for ‘magic trigger’

[9] Latin for ‘I await protector’


	5. Lifted Up on Eagle’s Wings

Grant sat next to his wife’s hospital bed, watching her sleep.  She was _alive_ , she was going to be just fine, and, after the day he’d had, that meant…more than he could say.  The once proud man choked back tears, remembering the day and the facts that had all but slapped him across the face with their truths.  In one day, he’d gone from on top of the world to the lowest point he could remember in a very long time.

_I’ve been a fool.  A selfish, conceited_ fool _._   He’d been so _arrogant_ , stiff-necked and convinced he could live his life all on his own.  _I thought I was so smart.  I didn’t need help; I had magic and that was all I’d_ ever _need._   How _wrong_ he’d been; magic hadn’t saved his two employees and friends. In fact, magic had come close, so very close, to taking them away.  Shame flooded his soul; yes, he’d been able to help the techie Aurors earn Brady’s trust, but he had a feeling they could have managed _just_ fine without him.  Parker had gotten J.T.’s trust without any trouble, after all.

Shame and guilt lashed at him, twin daggers as he was reminded, harshly, of the last time he’d seen and talked to his parents.  The _way_ he’d talked to them…no, not even _to_ them; he’d talked _at_ them, _down_ to them, his pride and arrogance dripping from every word.  Thinking of it now, he cringed.  Why, oh, _why_ had he thought himself _better_ than them?  Better than his brother?  The beginning, he knew, hadn’t been his fault; he still remembered the day he’d begged his favorite teacher to let his parents come to a school Quidditch match, still remembered the spurt of indignation when the answer was ‘no’.  But he’d stopped asking after that, given up, and then, as the years marched on, he’d changed until he no longer _wanted_ his parents or his brother encroaching on his new life.

Grant was ashamed to admit that until Giles walked in with two kids trailing after him, an idea and a challenge flaring up right in front of his nose, he hadn’t even _thought_ about his family in _years_.  And the challenge had appealed to that tiny buried spark of the boy he’d been, a grand gesture to _prove_ , if only to himself, that losing his family _hadn’t_ been his fault.  But the gesture was gone, buried in the ruins of his business and his life; the lies he’d told himself were exposed and now served as his self-made personal torture tools.  _I exchanged everything I believed, everything my parents taught me, for a lie._  In the darkness, he sniffed, then hastily wiped at his eyes, dashing the tears he didn’t deserve away.  He’d made this mess all by himself and now he had to lie in it.  _I’m sorry, Brooke.  Look what I did to you; it’s_ my _fault you’re here,_ my _fault that Shiloh’s gone.  And my fault that we don’t have any family, either._

Once upon a time, he’d been a Christian and he’d loved God with all the enthusiasm and excitement of a little boy.  When he’d walked away from his family, he’d walked away from God, too…until Brooke was attacked.  Like a drowning man, he’d flailed for a life-preserver, even as he hadn’t even been sure one was there.  There’d been no reason to get an answer; why would _anyone_ help him, much less the God he’d turned his back on?  But here Brooke was: a gift he didn’t deserve, a reward he hadn’t _earned_.  But the shame and guilt whispered that he didn’t _deserve_ help, that to think God would accept him back was sheer arrogance and blatant hypocrisy.  And Grant believed it.

* * * * *

In the light of a new day, Shiloh Dueling Academy looked even worse than it had in those panicked, frantic hours of the day before.  Grant sighed as he finished the last of the letters, each one an announcement that due to extenuating circumstances, classes and the study group were canceled until further notice.  He’d offered a refund for the already paid sessions, even as he had no idea where the refund would come from.  The exhausted wizard attached the final letter to the leg of the post owl belonging to the Pervis family.  _I guess, in the end, Alvin was right; Shiloh_ would _have been better off without me dragging it down._

With the letters finished, Grant left his office, trying not to look at the mess and failing miserably.  He stared blankly out at the wreckage and felt despair rise; he was still going to have to clean and fix the hall before it could be sold or turned over to Gringotts.  About to turn around and go back to his desk for a good cry – he’d lost everything else, why not add what was left of his pride and dignity – he halted at a sound from the front of the building.  Confusion raced across his face, followed by resignation, and Grant sighed before trudging towards the scrap of corkboard currently serving as the Academy’s front door.

He pulled the ‘door’ open, blinking at the sight of J.T., his family, and Brady.  J.T. was surveying the front windows, a sorrowful, wistful expression on his face and Brady looked utterly appalled at something just above them.  More graffiti, Grant wagered.  “What are you guys doing here, didn’t I give you the day off?” Grant questioned.

J.T. grinned as he turned towards his boss.  “Well, we talked and everybody decided Shiloh was the place to be.  Can’t expect a white boy to clean all this up by himself after all,” he teased.

“But…”

“Grant, we’re with you, all the way,” Brady put in over J.T.’s shoulder, an impressive feat since he was shorter than his coworker.  “I’m not ready to see Shiloh go down.  Not like this.”

“Room for a couple more?” a familiar female voice inquired.  Grant felt his jaw drop; behind Constable Callaghan was the rest of her team and Sergeant Parker’s two young charges.  The two tallest constables were carrying what looked like bags of supplies and the rest of the men were carting tools and equipment.

“Hey, any way to turn off all the wards or make a buffer zone so the electrical stuff doesn’t get fried?” Constable Scarlatti asked, almost dropping a rather large drill as he spoke; one of J.T.’s kids caught it, earning a grin from the constable.  “We’ve got a generator with us if we can keep it from getting blasted by the wards.”

“I know how to make a buffer zone,” a new voice that Grant was pretty sure he’d never heard before offered.  “It’s a little trick I picked up when I worked with the War Division.”  When Grant turned towards the new speaker, he forced himself to keep from gawping at the small group of Aurors, his old friend Giles among them.  The speaker offered Grant a tiny smirk and extended his hand.  “Nathan Simmons, Mr. Taylor.  When Giles spread the word about what happened, Madame Locksley almost had to hold a lottery for who got to come down and help.”

“Great,” Scarlatti practically chirped, “We’ll start bringing in the rest of the electric tools, then.”

“Not just yet,” Simmons immediately retorted.  “Giles says the dueling platform wards are a _mess_.  We’ll have to finish bringing them down before I can create a buffer zone, Scarlatti.”

“Besides, Spike,” Constable Braddock piped up, “We’ve got to clean the whole place before we can start putting it back together.  We don’t need the tools to do _that_.”

“We should get started then,” Sergeant Parker suggested, only to get a black look from the tallest of his team.

“Greg, _you’re_ not lifting _anything_ , clear?”

Parker gave his subordinate a glare.  “Ed, I’m not crippled.  Can I lift heavy things right now?  No, but I _can_ help Mr. Taylor with the paperwork in his office.”

Overruled before he’d even had a chance to argue his case, Grant sighed internally, then decided.  “Given how much we have to do today, it’s Grant, Sergeant Parker.”

Humor glinted in the Sergeant’s eyes.  “Only if you call me Greg.”

* * * * *

Contrary to Grant’s assumptions, Brooke had been awake while her husband was present.  In fact, she’d been about to reach out to him when he’d started muttering to himself.  She doubted he’d even realized that he was talking out loud and she also doubted she’d heard _everything_ he’d been thinking to himself, but what she _did_ know was that her husband needed help she couldn’t offer him.  And not just physical help, but _emotional_ help as well.

When he sniffled, just the once, she heard the sobs that he forced back and felt a tear trickle down her own face; he was hurting so badly and she couldn’t help.  But she _did_ know who _could_ help, even if she had _no_ idea how to get the message to them.  Brooke thought through ideas, plans, discarding most of them almost as soon as they appeared.  Too ludicrous, too obviously magical, too much of the same superiority that had gotten them in this mess to begin with.

By the time the Healer arrived, Brooke was feeling rather glum and dejected.  It should _not_ be so hard to think of a way to contact her in-laws!  The blonde woman forced the dejection off her face and answered all the Healer’s questions forthrightly, though she didn’t appreciate the insinuation in most of the questions that it was her husband’s fault she’d been attacked.  And she appreciated even _less_ the attempt to get her to stay another night, refusing so bluntly that the Healer was taken aback.

Shiloh’s Apparition Point was buried in rubble, so Brooke was forced to endure the Knight Bus, but the rough ride was worth it to see her beloved Shiloh.  She choked back tears of her own at the damage to the old building, then cocked her head, surprised at the noise from within the hall.  Carefully, she pushed the corkboard door open and stepped through – only to stare at the hustle and bustle all around her.  Four teenagers of varying ages were hard at work scrubbing the first of the graffiti off the walls while several men, one of them Giles Onasi, finished bringing down the broken wards on the rearmost dueling platform.  A girl darted between the men, offering up bottles of a pale pink liquid; Brooke was startled to realize that it was most likely pink lemonade.

“Greg, if you don’t put that sling back on in the next ten seconds, I’ll tell Holleran to bench you for the next _month!_ ” a man roared from the direction of Grant’s office, the roar making Brooke jump in surprise.

One of the men near Giles whistled, remarking to the man next to him, “Sounds like Ed’s on the warpath.”

“Better hope he doesn’t find out Sarge half ditched the sling yesterday, too,” the blond man hissed back.

“And where were you and Spike when he was doing that?” the brunet inquired, his tone and gaze pointed.

“Driving the trucks.  I think he was having a tough time writing with the sling on.”

A thoughtful nod.  “Your secret’s safe with me Sam; sometimes, you gotta do what you gotta do.”

Brooke’s eyes trailed away from the two men, amazement overtaking the shock.  It almost seemed as if Shiloh was rising from the ashes, right in front of her, and her determination to do _her_ part surged.  She took a step forward, only to be caught by a slim hand.  Brooke twisted, one brow going up at the gentle smile the woman attached to that hand was giving her.

“Better stay out of their way,” the woman advised, “Guys and construction work, I swear.  It’s worse than getting between them and the firing range.  Jules Callaghan,” the woman added, her eyes twinkling with amusement.  “You must be Mrs. Taylor.”

“Brooke,” came the correction.  “Only fair seein’ as you and your co-workers are helping us rebuild Shiloh.”

“That’s a pretty name,” Jules remarked.  Glancing around, she got down to business.  “Sarge is helping your husband with his office; I think you heard Ed’s opinion on _that_ when you walked in.  Spike, Lou, and Wordy are probably going to drag the generator in here as soon as Simmons creates a buffer zone around the hall to keep electronics from getting fried and the kids are just about done getting most of the trash out of the back room.  Not sure if they were able to save the study group books that were back there or not.”

“In other words, stay out of it,” Brooke finished, earning a wry nod.  “That’s okay, actually.  Are _you_ doin’ anything?”

Jules considered, then shook her head, saying, “Not if you need help with something, Brooke.”

“I do,” Brooke admitted.  “I need to find my in-laws’ address and I have no idea where to start.”

“An address and maybe a ride, too?” Jules asked, her smile reappearing at Brooke’s expression.  “I’m a negotiator, Brooke.  You want to talk to them, don’t you?”  She looked back at the beehive of activity.  “Give me one sec to tell Sarge where we’re going, okay?”

“Thank you,” Brooke whispered.

* * * * *

“Easy there, watch the blade,” Lou coached, pulling J.T. away from where Wordy was sawing the next plank for the floor off the larger plank.  “People have gotten their fingers cut off by poking them where they don’t belong.”

“They have?” J.T. asked, surprise in his voice.

“Sure have,” Spike confirmed from his position, drilling holes in the ceiling for the new light fixtures.  He, Wordy, and Lou had clubbed up a few hours earlier with Onasi on an idea to combine common techie light fixtures with the crystal light things and the idea appeared to be working out quite well.  Even if they’d only put up two so far; the combining was a touch more complicated than it had looked at first.  The bomb tech pulled his drill down to double check the distance between two holes with his tape measure.

Down below, Lou nudged J.T. towards the less dangerous part of the operation: pulling the old boards up.  The whole group, including the crowd of tech-born kids who’d shown up after school, had cheered as the last of the debris was cleared out, but once they had, the extent of the damage to the building had dampened their excitement.

“Sam,” Wordy called, pulling the next new board off, “How’s the generator holding up?”

“We’ve got about a fourth tank left,” Sam called back.  “Can I gas it without turning it off?”

“Should be able to,” Ed opined, sticking his head into the back room.  “Spike?”

“No, no, no, Samtastic,” Spike countered at once.  “When it hits an eighth of a tank, we’ll shut down for a couple minutes.  Got to let it cool down or we could start a fire.”  He tossed a mock glare at his team leader, who shrugged.  Ed was no expert in construction…well, none of them were, not _really_.

“I got an idea,” J.T. put in, hefting another old board and tossing it in the new trash pile.  “How ‘bout we take our break now?  I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m starving.”

As if on cue, both Spike and Lou’s stomachs rumbled, drawing laughter from the rest of the men.  Over the laughter, Spike maintained his dignity and replied, “Sounds like a plan, J.T.”


	6. On My Father’s Wings

Greg sorted through another pile of parchmentwork, ignoring his abandoned sling with the disdain of a man who had _much_ more important things to do with his time than fight with a restrictive piece of fabric.  “Okay, looks like these are all the statements from January of,” he double checked the date, “last year.”

From the depths of a nearby heap of debris, Grant called, “Set that aside; I haven’t dug the cabinet that goes in out yet.”

“Copy that,” Greg acknowledged, adding the sorted statements to the growing ‘to be filed’ parchment stack.  Picking up the next pile, the negotiator added casually, “Want to talk about it?”

The depths nearby froze for instant.  “Talk about what?”  Wary caution, coated in reluctance a kilometer deep.

Greg kept his attention on his work.  “My job, we see a lot of folks at the worst point in their lives.”  Another freeze from nearby.  “And I can’t help but think something like yesterday hits hard.  Maybe harder than we expect it to.”  A wry smile twisted the Sergeant’s jaw.  “Plus, I’d have to be blind to miss the ‘we’re going to be closing soon’ tone of that letter you mailed out this morning.”

When Grant sighed heavily, Greg looked up, sensing his words had just pushed the other man to the end of his rope.  Without a word, Greg went to the repaired office door and closed it, cutting off most of the noise outside.  Grant’s voice, when he spoke, was so soft that Greg was forced to push his hearing up to hear it.  “Even…even if I get Shiloh up and running again, this is our last month, Greg.”

“Why?”

Silence hung, backed by the way Grant stared at his shoes.  With slumped shoulders, Grant explained, “When Brooke and I opened this place up, we didn’t have enough Galleons, so we took out a loan.”

Greg nodded once.  It wasn’t unheard of; the negotiator was sure many small businesses did the same thing, on _both_ sides of the fence.

Grant raked one hand through his hair.  “We’re a little behind, but we were starting to catch up this month.  Then my account manager told me yesterday that they’re calling the loan due at the end of this month.”

“When _should_ it be due?” Greg inquired shrewdly.

“Six months from now.”  It was Greg’s turn to freeze, shocked by the painfully obvious pressure play.  “I can’t pay it off that fast and once they call the loan due, Shiloh is theirs.”  Grant’s laugh was bitter and he tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling, blinking hard.  “So much for making it on my own.”

There were shades of history in that remark, shades that Greg had no business poking into.  But there was _something_ he could say and he did.  “Grant, what you and your business did, it was _worth_ it.  For me and _mio nipotes_ , not quite as much, I’ll admit.  I don’t need to go to their school events to know what they’re learning or to know they’re still part of ‘my’ world.  But that day, at the tournament, you would not _believe_ how many parents told me how happy they were to _finally_ do something other parents take for granted: watch their kids at a school event.”

“But…but it wasn’t,” Grant protested weakly.

Greg shook his head.  “Close enough in their books – mine, too, to tell the truth.”  He opened his mouth, then shut it and considered.  “For whatever reason,” he began slowly, “you gave those kids and their parents a chance to reconnect and have fun.  And you’ve kept on _giving_ them that chance.  Look at the after-school program, look at the lessons, heck, you could even look at the harassment; they only did _that_ because you’re succeeding.”

The Sergeant might have said more, but just then, there was a knock at the office door.  Greg strode to the door and pulled it open, surprised by the sight of a man who looked like Grant would look in another twenty or forty years.  Jules’ tiny smirk and the hovering of a blonde woman who _had_ to be Brooke Taylor sealed the deal.  Greg shifted back, scooping up the next three piles of parchmentwork and took them out the door, leaving Grant with his father.

* * * * *

To say that Grant was shocked would have been an understatement; he was floored by the sight of his father in his dueling hall.  Weakly, in what sounded more like a whimper, he asked, “Dad?”

“Hello, son.”

His father’s hair had turned gray and the cane at his side hadn’t been there at the wedding.  Grant cringed internally and he quickly sought out the sturdiest remaining chair in the office, hefting it up and bringing it over to his father.  “You, uh, you want a seat, Dad?”

“Thank you, son,” the elder Taylor replied, settling into the chair.  His eyes were a mix of sadness and joy.  “I hear you had quite an eventful day yesterday.”

Grant couldn’t help the breathy laugh.  “That’s one way to put it,” he agreed.  His eyes found the desk, shame flaring hot and full within him.  “Dad, I’m…I’m sorry for how I’ve treated you.  And how I treated Mom.”  The shame grew as a tear slid free despite his best efforts.

“Son, I didn’t come here to judge you, though I thank you for the apology,” the elder man remarked, leaning forward in his seat.  “I came to encourage you.”

Grant’s head shot up, the disbelief in his eyes shot through with the conviction that he wasn’t worth it.  The father felt his own heart ache at the sight; yes, he and his wife had let their second son make his own way in a world they couldn’t understand, but seeing Grant now made him realize that they’d given up too soon.  Or maybe their withdrawal had given God an opening into Grant’s life that their presence would have cut off.  He would never know, but he _did_ know that his son was drowning in doubt, guilt, and shame.

Mr. Taylor stood, leaning his cane against Grant’s desk and ignoring the mess covering most of the tiny office.  Moving around the desk, he rested his hand on Grant’s shoulder and continued, “Grant, I am so _proud_ of you.”

“Proud?”

Broken, his son sounded so broken.  The elder Taylor tightened his grasp.  “Yes, son, I am.  It might have taken all this time and an event I wouldn’t wish on anyone, much less my own son, but you’ve finally come home.”

He felt himself pulled down a bit as his son broke down in tears and hugged him fiercely, but he didn’t mind.  Instead he hugged back and settled himself against the edge of the desk.  He doubted Grant was in any state of mind for the prayer his father had hoped to pray over him, but they had time.  For now, his son could start to heal and he could find out if Grant had given him any more grandchildren.

* * * * *

Greg and Brooke finished sorting through the last of the parchment the former had snatched up before leaving Grant alone with his father.  “I’ll have to ask Grant where he wants this,” Brooke remarked, glancing over her shoulder at the closed door.

“We’ve got time,” Greg countered gently.  “From what you’ve said, they need time with each other right now.”

“I’ve some humble pie of my own ta eat,” Brooke admitted.  “I’m Muggleborn, too, but my parents are a far cry from Grant’s.”

Greg had a flash of a little girl his team had helped early on and nodded once.  “It might be the 21st century, but some people are still reliving the witch-hunts,” he commiserated.

“Ain’t that the truth,” Brooke drawled.  She fiddled with a few papers, then blurted, “How do you do it?  How do you raise them, knowing they’re so different from you?”

For an instant, Greg was taken aback.  A deep breath later and he riposted, “Because they’re not.”  At Brooke’s wide-eyed look, he continued, “Really, they aren’t.  Magic aside, they’re just like any other kid their age.  The same fears, the same dreams, even some of the same interests.”  He lifted a hand to still her reply.  “Yes, I know every child is different, but you’re implying that their magic sets them apart.  As far as _I’m_ concerned, their magic is nothing more than a talent.  _No one_ has exactly the same talents, now do they?  Spike, my bomb tech, he has a talent for bombs and computers that I can barely understand.  Should I be jealous of him?”

He let the question hang, even tilting his head to the side.  “It’s that easy?” she asked after several seconds.

“I decided to _make_ it that easy,” the negotiator replied.

He might have continued, but a hawk swept in, landing on the desk and nearly scattering the piles of parchment; Brooke’s wand flashed, catching the papers and stacking them neatly on her chair.  The hawk extended its leg to Brooke and she removed the letter, breaking the seal as the hawk swept back out.  With a trembling hand, she opened the letter and read it.  A strangled sob erupted and she pressed a fist to her mouth, trembling harder.

“Brooke?” Greg asked, moving to her side, concern in his eyes.

“This…I have to show Grant.”  Brooke raced away, to the office door.  She knocked once, then pushed the door open.  “Grant!”

Greg saw the raven-haired man’s head come up and he stared blankly at his wife.

“Grant, it’s a miracle!” Brooke cried, thrusting the letter at her husband.  “They’re not calling the loan due.”

“What?”

Greg was distracted as his niece chose that instant to sidle up, leaning against his chest with a smug expression on her face.  “Alanna?”

“Graffiti’s gone,” she chirped, tugging him away from the desk and the parchmentwork on top.  “And Brady wants to know where he can get a phone that works magic-side.”

The negotiator let himself be tugged, a smile creeping across his face.  “Alanna?” he asked, tilting his head toward the nearby office.  Her smile turned even more brilliant; though she said nothing, her eyes shone with delight.  Greg pulled his hand free and ruffled her hair, smirking at her cry of protest.  “Good work, _mia nipote_.”

“J.T. says they might be starting a dueling team soon,” Alanna chattered, pushing her ruffled locks back into place.  “They’re gonna call us the Shiloh Eagles.”

“The Eagles, huh?”

“Lance says we’ll have to use Latin only, but I still want to try.”

“Sounds like fun, _mia nipote_.  Am I invited to your tournaments?”

“Only if you don’t get shot again,” Alanna decided, earning roars of laughter from the rest of Team One and looks of concern from Brady and J.T.

“Guess _you_ got told, Sarge,” Wordy teased, a grin on his face.

Greg’s eyes narrowed, then he smirked as he noticed something Wordy _hadn’t_.  He traded looks with his niece and nephew, his smirk growing.  Then, nonchalantly, he inquired, “Trying out a new look there, Wordy?”

Wordy’s smile faded as his teammates turned to look, then burst out laughing.  Gingerly, Wordy reached up, confusion flashing over his face when he touched a fairly lengthy clump of hair.  “What the?”

From farther back in the room, Lou suddenly asked, “Spike, did you cut your hair?”

“What?  What haircut?  I didn’t cut my hair!”  A pause, “Hey, Lou, how come your hair’s _blond_?”

Greg bit his lip to keep from laughing as Sam’s hands shot up and the sniper froze in horror.  Ed looked between Sam’s head and Wordy’s, then sighed and reached up to touch Lou’s fuzz of black hair.  “Very funny, Greg,” he growled.

The innocent expression on the Sergeant’s face fooled no one.  The smirk turned just a touch evil as Greg folded his arms.  “ _I_ don’t have magic, Eddie, how could _I_ do anything to your hair?”

Twin muffled giggles betrayed Greg’s co-conspirators.

Greg gave his team leader a haughty expression.  “Just be grateful I don’t have a camera along, Eddie.”

“Sarge…” Wordy pleaded.  “I can’t go home to Shelley with Spike’s haircut.”

Two more muffled snorts came from the co-conspirators and the Shiloh employees began to snicker as they recovered from the initial shock of the magical prank.

“All right,” Greg agreed.  “No more smart remarks about my sling, but I’ll still spring for the butterbeer…and my root beer.”

“Deal,” Wordy replied before anyone else could.

Solemn, Greg nodded.  “It’ll wear off before you go home.”  He worked to keep from laughing at the expressions on his subordinates’ faces.

Behind him, Brooke, Grant, and the elder Mr. Taylor entered, Brooke giggling at the sight of the swapped haircuts.  Grant leaned back on his heels, then glanced at the two Calvins.  “Switching spells?”

The siblings nodded.  “Silently,” Lance added.

Grant looked between the teens and the results, a smile tugging at his mouth.  “Good job.”  At the utterly comical looks of dismay from the male constables of Team One, he snickered and added, “Just remember…don’t go overboard.”

“Is that all, son?”

Grant’s brow furrowed and he turned to his father, one eyebrow going up.

Reading the silent question, the elder Taylor smiled, a hint of mischief in his eyes.  Looking at the attentive Calvins, he winked and told them, “Don’t get caught.”

As Team One gaped at the three Taylors, Brooke pulled out a camera and, with a giggle, added, “Smile!”

 

_~ Fin_


End file.
